Waiting
by Eaglefire
Summary: Macbeth: Lady Macbeth has destroyed everything good in her life... but does that mean eternal damnation awaits?


Lady Macbeth knows she has messed everything up... but does that mean eternal damnation awaits?

Reviews appreciated.

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_**Waiting**_

There is a time and a place to act. Choose well, and Fortune rewards you. Hurry or hesitate, and you are cursed by the Lady Dame of Luck for eternity.

I thought I was right, at the time. Tradition deems the strongest man shall rule by the laws of our people. My lord was strongest and cleverest, most loyal and brave, and fate had fortold his destiny. I thought the time was ripe to seize it.

I must have been wrong, for these years have eaten away at me and poisoned my husband's heart and my womb. And now, without him or children, I am alone to suffer guilt as I attempt to forget the past that has made me the queen I am today.

He has ordered that his court and armies retreat to Dunsinane, his stronghold. We shall leave soon, possibly forever. I cannot see him defeating Malcolm now.

When Macbeth and I first came to Inverness together, man and wife, the birds sang and flew freely across the azure sky. My handmaiden made me a crown of flowers from the surrounding hills, and nights were long and peaceful.

No longer do the birds grace us with their light-hearted presence; I find myself yearning to feel the sun on my pale, weathered face. I cannot bear to look in the mirror; the woman who stares back terrifies me. With those dark circles underneath them, her sunken eyes accuse, reminding me of an unattainable light at the end of the deepest cave as her white, taunt lips appraise me.

I do not sleep well; the ghostly faces of Duncan and Banquo watch me silently, while the cries of children and an old friend chase me through Inverness. Lady MacDuff had always been a sweet child, since we first met as girls, before either of us were married…. How long will I be haunted by her and her offspring?

I admit willingly to my part in the old king's death, and I would atone for it. But it seems others summoned to Death's Halls await my arrival with blame and hate in their gazes, too.

I knew nothing of the plot to destroy Banquo's line; I sent a man to warn MacDuff's family.

But I created the monster, and I am tied to him by spilled blood and vows of love, and so whatever his fault is mine as well.

I tried to go to confessional again today. I nearly revealed all to the father, but shame silenced me at the very last moment. I am sullied by murder, condemned to the final rings of eternal hell reserved for traitors.

Disloyalty to a weak king is a tale often spun, one that is laudable when the betrayal is at an opportune moment. But I am damned for betraying friends and deceiving my husband in trying to protect them all at once. I am torn between two loyalties, blundering as I struggle along, and therefore even more despicable than the evilest man to walk this earth. I walk the line between demons and angels, unwilling to submit to the dark but unable to turn to the light. And, in doing so, I am loyal to both and neither heaven nor hell at the same time, and welcomed nowhere.

"My lady?" I start, then turn to meet Anna's gaze, which wavers as our eyes lock. My heart sinks. She has watched me oddly for some time now; we never talk anymore. The thought makes me feel ill as I watch her and the intangible, terrible chasm between us. I can reach out and touch her, if I wish, but it would mean nothing…. I cannot point out the precise moment that we split, but it could not have happened over the course of one night. I only noticed it once it was too large a gap to cross. I wonder if she hears me cry out in my sleep at night… but no, for even she would turn away from me if she knew.

Would that I could build a bridge over this rift! Over all of them! Anna, my dearest confidante, my oldest childhood friend, who stuck with me through the high and low tides! But I must have pushed her away, during those dark times of thieving and plotting… and only understood what I had lost once I had lost everything else. And now I must see this hell out alone.

I straighten and looked down at her regally. This is a façade I mastered long ago.

"I am going out to the gardens," I state loftily, ignoring her puzzled expression. "Leave me be. I am not to be disturbed." Then I sweep out of the room, my skirts floating. Of course she is confused; she cannot understand why I would go there, of all places. No flowers have grown in that weedy patch of dirt in a decade, perhaps more.

Despite my trembling hands, I feel much less tense than usual. Lately, it seems my senses are deadened to all my surroundings, my thoughts and feelings- I wander about in a haze created by the heavy burdens of pain and fear for my soul and the wearying years' toil from which I can find no respite, even in sleep.

The air is cold and damp as I step out into the courtyard. There is an oak standing in the middle of the pathways, the only source of green besides the small and scant thistles that poke out of the ground every so often. Hanging from a low branch is a swing; I run my hand along the heavy, braided rope before sitting down.

When will it end? I fear I know the answer, and ignore it as best as I can, for it will mean torment for my immortal self long after all records of my life have been lost to the world.

The end is nigh and inevitable, not only for me but my beloved, if I dare still call him that. This old king is far from that gallant youth who once pushed me on the garden swing I rest upon.

The fallen leaves are brittle and decayed; no one has bothered to sweep them up in these past few years. Only brown, thorny stalks remain of the rose bushes Macbeth had given me as wedding gifts all those years ago.

For a moment, I imagine this fallen paradise as it had been before- colorful and cheery, the blue sky above me-

And Macbeth as he had been. As he should be; peaceful and strong, with that kind, reassuring twinkle in his eyes. Not a doddering, paranoid invalid who turns on even those who love him most.

Tears soaked my cheeks when I first realized my error, and how far down the steeped path of wrongdoing we had slipped, but I cannot cry anymore. I cannot do anything, but watch how the little pebbles I dislodged in our fall grow into a greedy, hateful avalanche wreaking vengeance. If only I could save my husband, throw him out of the way and let the rocks crush me to pieces instead….

I cannot sleep, eat, or pray. Everything makes me ill; death has stolen all joys of living from me, a far worse fate than death, I believe. At least Banquo will be honored in heaven. At least Lady MacDuff will be avenged; at least her children will frolic in the eternal gardens in peace. In spite of my deep love, or maybe because of it, I wish so dearly that the evil beast who killed his best man and friend should die, God forgive me for it. God forgive me for everything.

How can I be good, when I ruined a good man and resurrected a monster in his stead? I was the death of Macbeth, the man whose gentle love and loyalty supplanted all other needs and desires. But how can I be evil, if these deeds trouble me so? Damned be consciences, only speaking up after the deed is done! Only there to torment a woman once nothing more can be done; the bird is already in flight, the armies in motion!

"Please," I manage in a hoarse voice. "Save me, Lord." Bring back those golden days. Bring back the man I loved.

I close my eyes, letting darkness swarm over me. It is what I deserve, what I will suffer forevermore-

I feel myself fall into dreams, into the endless nightmare... The familiar sobbing and screaming gathers in my mind. My hands clench; I look down at them-

Blood. Blood, blood-

No, not I. I plead with the darkness. It was not I…. Duncan, the guards- yes! But not them- no, I tried to save them-

I fall to the floor, screaming aloud myself. Maybe, if I scream loud enough, it will drown out their shouts…. Someone grabs my hands; I look up into the face of Macbeth. Of _Macbeth_, my love, not his shadow…. I tremble; it cannot be true…. I am still dreaming, I think, but this is no nightmare; I cannot believe he is not real, either, for he stands before me so vividly...

His eyes are soft, clear- how could I imagine those? He helps me up onto my knees. I clutch his shoulders, and we stay there for a long, still moment- he is the rock, the rock in the midst of this battering storm.

"I'm sorry," I moan, burying my face into his chest. His callused hands stroke my hair, my hands. Is he here, then, to redeem me? To lift me from this despair?

"For what, dearest?" he whispers, kissing me. I cannot reply; I cannot remember what I was going to say, for chills of heat rush through me. How I have missed him! The touch of his skin, the passion that dances between us. Flames and ice, all at once, more thrilling than the wildest horse race…. It breaks the numbness, melts the bitterness-

What anger? What fear? I cannot recall now; he is here, and that is all that matters. He awakens a primeval part of me, buried somewhere deep and dark within, something that cannot be drawn out without the risk of searing agony and the fairest joy waiting to collapse above me….

Something shudders through him; he stops. I tighten my hold on him. I will not lose him- He groans, and I open my eyes reluctantly. His eyes are bewildered as I stare into them, our foreheads touching. A shiver runs through me as emotions tear across his face: fear, realization, and then-

My breath catches; it is hate I see, pure, wrenching loathing. Unbearable abhorrence. He thrusts me back. It is now, as I fall, that I see the dagger lodged in his abdomen. He doubles over, pulling at the blade. Blood stains his blue tunic, turning it black.

"You!" The simple word, worse than a thousand curses… more terrifying than a league of threats. It speaks more than anything else can. He grimaces. "You-"

"No!" I scream, reaching for him, but he recoils. Before my eyes, he changes. His eyes darken until there is nothing but blackness in them; his body shrivels into a pale, weak husk of his former self. When he lifts a hand to hit me, his nails are long and filthy from neglect, his motions shaky. His hair is gray where it has not fallen out- I hate him, I fear him-

Then he is the image of his young self again, despair clouding those brilliant eyes. My heart breaks; I did not know there was a piece of it that had not shattered against the unfeeling wall of hate. He kicks out, and my vision goes dark… I claw at it, desperately fighting through it to see him again, tell him it was not me, I love him-

But it _had _been me…. It was all _my _fault...

"I didn't know!" I scream, throat ripping. "_I didn't know!_" God, if I had known- I land, hitting my side against this invisible ground. The cries of children start again, this time piercing my mind and twisting my gut, making the pain more acute than ever, as this fresh wound burns. I pound my fists into the ground; am I that evil, then, to deserve this torture? "Kill me, then!" I shriek. "Please! Let me die! Let me see him again!" I love him… but in trying to picture him, all I see is the panic in those haunted eyes as he appealed to me after murdering Duncan-

All I see is that harsh jaw setting as he condemned Malcolm and Donalbain…

All I see is that pale, wrinkled face as he spoke to ghosts in the hall.

Now, I know that he is not insane about the ghosts; they pursue me, too.

Or perhaps I am the mad one now.

Footsteps. I quiet, shaking. When they stop, I look up and gasp. I know this face. Ghosts are not so real; Banquo seems to stand before me in the flesh. Lowering my eyes, I wait for the threats, the rage-

When neither comes, I look up.

O Lord! He smiles! He smiles at me, wretched temptress and demon I am! Maybe he knows this is worse than anger. Perhaps he knows that this is the deed- the only one- with the power to break me.

"Don't taunt me," I whisper, feelings the tears well up in my eyes. "Was that why you showed me Macbeth, as he was? To hurt me? To show me how much I have lost? Believe me, I know." My voice wavers. "I know." As my gaze falls again, my fists tighten. "I am damned. Come to gloat?" My voice breaks. I cannot speak. For the first time in years, tears steam down my face.

I am shocked when the vision touches my chin, his hand forcing me to look up at him. I flinch, waiting for his skin to bite and pinch and burn… but it does not. His hand is warm, nothing else.

His eyes are gentle, not mocking nor hard. I must be insane, then, driven with hopelessness to conjure such images, to grasp at such tormenting imaginings.

"Dear friend," he murmurs, and I am struck dumb as emotion floods through me, wakening those deadened senses and shattering that numbness which had already begun to settle back over me after seeing Macbeth; the pain is raw.

Dear friend...? No, not I... surely you know that, of all folk, Banquo... you who have followed my footsteps these ceaseless years...

It is in this moment that Banquo's image flickers. There is something- Someone- underneath this mask. Someone that my soul rises to meet, leaps to name-

But before I can grab at the thought, the feelings leave me again, and I am left with Banquo's ghost. I bury my face in my hands, shivering.

"I would give anything to stop this. To erase it. To end it and begin anew." I do not know if I say it aloud or not, but the fervent thought echoes so clearly through me that I feel the words sing in the air around me.

"That is all I ask for." There is something different in the man's eyes. Something greater than man. "All I could ever hope for." His deep voice reverberates through me, making me shudder and gasp for breath as I strive not to burst into body-wracking sobs. I am losing the fight quickly. So quickly.

I feel his beard scratch my temple as he kisses my forehead, the caress as light as the rustling of an angel's wing. It stings, but then the needle-like prick washes over me, pulling me from the shores of this world and towards the horizon of the next. And there is nothing foreboding about it; as the sun breaks over the edge of the world, its light enters my eyes, and I stare breathlessly at it for that short moment, able to witness its dimmed glory for that small space of time before it grows too great to bear.

But I have seen it, I have seen it; I have seen the light, and continue to gaze into it as it grows into a blaze of mesmerizing majesty. I cannot bear to close my eyes or tear them away, even if this heated splendor would strike me down for daring to look upon it for so long, even as tears grow in my eyes.

Instead of reaching its pinnacle, it begins to fade; for a moment, I panic. Will it blind me, then? Reproach me for venturing to see it?

No. I am instantly reassured by the thought as it blossoms in my mind. It is a promise, a reminder for me, to sustain me through the rest of my days, in which I must face the darkness. In which I must be strong, until I am called back to this place.

I open my eyes to the dark sky; I am lying on the ground, in the forsaken garden, the starless void above me. No sign of any ghosts. Crying, I rise, smiling up at the night. Because I am no longer afraid. I know now that dawn is coming.

This world is too much for me to bear, whether I am damned or otherwise in the next one….

The end will finally come, is finally at hand, after all these years…

Finally, perhaps… I shall have solace. Dare I think this? I feel my heart lift, its battered, torn body raised on high. Is it wrong to hope? Is it wrong of me to wish?

Right or wrong, I will not have long to wait.

Lady Macbeth


End file.
